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 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Rebecca Alexander
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the
Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC,
a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Broadway Books and its logo, B \ D \ W \ Y, are trademarks of
Random House LLC.
Originally published in hardcover in slightly different form in the
United Kingdom by Del Rey an imprint of Ebury Publishing, a
member of the Random House Group, London, in 2014
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
[CIP data TK]
ISBN 978-0-8041-40706
eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-4071-6
Printed in the United States of America
Book design by Lauren Dong
Cover design by
Cover photographs by
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First U.S. Edition

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 Chapter 1

Present day: Bee Cottage, near Hawkshead, Lake District

The garden has forgotten what it waits for and guards

against; it waits and guards anyway. It twitches out a
few lime nettle shoots and uncoils brambles to search for
unwary rabbits.
Paths wind between shrubs and trees, some unknown
to modern science. A lone rhododendron has been chased
into the shadow of the wall, harried by native plants, its
branches defending itself against attacks by blackthorns
and a spiteful dog rose.
And everywhere the elder trees, children of the great
elder mother, who sits in the middle of the walled acre.
She is defended by her progeny, and sheds fat, berried
tears for the loss of the witch.

T
he stench of charred flesh hung over the cot-
tage. Jackdaw Hammond had forced the door, swollen
with damp, to enter Ellen’s house. She couldn’t walk
much further than the bottom of the stairs because there were
piles of rubbish stacked almost to the ceiling.
“This is the worst house in the world.” Fourteen-year-old
Sadie took two steps into the hall and stopped. “We can’t live
here.”

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 2    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

Barricades of newspapers were still damp from the soaking

by the fire brigade. Some mounds leaned against the wall, others
had toppled over. The hall had one door straight ahead and one
on each side, with stairs barely passable up the middle, rubbish
heaped onto each tread. Jack pushed on the left-hand door but
could hardly get it open halfway. Peering in, she realized it was
tightly packed with boxes, packing cases and more papers.
“Ugh. It stinks.” Sadie seemed reluctant to risk her new
trainers on the slimy floor. She covered her mouth while she
gagged. “We can’t live here, it’s horrible.”
Jack almost agreed with her as her nose gradually distin-
guished the stench of putrefying flesh from scorched wood,
charred meat and mouldy rubbish. She pushed against the
right-hand door, which swung open easily.
It was a well-proportioned room. Light gleamed in slivers
across bare walls, sneaking in between the boards over the
windows. It had high ceilings, a square bay in the front, and
was empty of furniture. The walls were barely smoke-damaged
below about a meter high where the blackening really started,
building up to a dense sooty layer across the top of the room.
It hung in greasy droplets from the ceiling, and even Jack was
nauseated at the reek of seared flesh. An oval on the floor had
burned down into the boards, breaching a couple of joists in the
middle.
A scream from Sadie made her dart back into the hall.
“There are rats in there!” The girl pointed at the other door,
open a few inches. She wrapped her arms around herself, and
shuddered. “I’m going to sit in the car. And I am not living here.
My mum would go mad if she knew what this place is like.” She
stalked toward the front door.
“It will be better once it’s cleaned up.” Jack looked around
the hall, seeing the old electrical fittings and cracks in the plas-
ter, the bare wooden laths visible in places. “You won’t recog-
nize it, once it’s been . . .” She realized Sadie had already gone,

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    3 

and added “. . . bulldozed” under her breath. She tucked her fair
hair into her collar in case it touched anything.
Trying to stop her coat from brushing the rubbish, she
squeezed down the passageway and pushed at the door at the
back of the hall. It was swollen shut and Jack pushed harder
until it creaked, then gave way.
The room was different in style, with two deep-set windows
glazed with small panes of cracked glass and a door barely six
foot high. The ceiling was only a few inches higher. One side
wall was mostly taken up with a wide fireplace, with a pile of
rusty pans sitting on what looked like a Victorian range. Under
the window ran a work surface, swollen open with the damp,
the layers peeling back like a wet paperback. In the middle of
it sat a ceramic sink, a white deposit of limescale sitting under
a dripping tap. Beside the central door an old enamel electric
cooker squatted, covered with opened tins, some topped with
mould or half filled with greasy water.
Standing back, she could see the reason for the lack of light.
Plastered against each surviving pane were wet leaves. Broken
glass had allowed the ingress of ivy branches, which had spread
across the walls, almost reaching the inner door frame. Bram-
bles thicker than her thumb carpeted the tiled floor, squeezed
under the old door as if searching for something. Mushrooms
sprouted along the damp edge of the window frame and seeds
were germinating on the threshold to the garden.
Jack stepped over the brambles, avoiding piles of rubbish,
and found bolts on the door at top and bottom. They were
rusted almost solid and she hit them with one of the heavy pots
from the range. In a shower of rust, she managed to get the
bolts moving, working them up and down before trying to drag
them back. The top one wasn’t too bad but she was sweating by
the time she forced the bottom one. The door sprang inward as
soon as it was released, and opening it further she realized why.
A wall of green was pushing against the door, climbers

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 4    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

toppling onto the threshold, shrubs leaning against the wood.

Branches of an elder tree must have been bent against the
handle as leaves had been torn off when she opened the door.
Squinting along the outside wall, brambles reaching for her
hair, Jack could see the greenery had grown up the building
almost to the roof, and embedded itself into the lime render.
It was completely impassable. Jack had to put her whole weight
against the door to get it shut enough to ram the top bolt home.
The smell in the room was getting worse: mould certainly,
and the smoke from the fire, but under it all was the stink of de-
composition. Jack nudged the brambles on the floor away from
what seemed to be the source of the stench.
It was a pile of oily slime, recognizable as previously a cat
from the fineness of the brown and black hair. A white skull was
emerging from a mass of maggots and the slick of fur, the ca-
nines stretched apart in a defiant last snarl. In the middle of the
forehead was a round cavity, which looked exactly like a bullet
hole.

Walnut Grove, the bed and breakfast, had been organized

by Maggie, Jack’s foster mother. The twin-bedded room had
stripped floorboards and a large shower room. The landlord
looked curiously at Sadie’s white skin and lips and offered the
teenager a hot chocolate to warm her up. Jack had been look-
ing after Sadie for a few months now, and was always surprised
at how friendly and open she was with strangers. Not today,
though. She folded herself onto one of the beds, and even let
Jack undo her trainers.
When the landlady brought up the chocolate and a mug of
tea for Jack, she looked at the collapsed teenager with concern.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s been ill. She’s in remission now, but she’s very tired
and we had a seven-hour drive up.”

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    5 

“And you’re going to do up Bee Cottage. Now, there’s a job.

Old Ellen went a bit senile at the end: it’s a mess. Such a tragic
way to go, though. Call me if you need anything.” She paused
at the door, looking down at the huddled girl before she left.
“Poor little thing.”
Jack opened her rucksack and rummaged for a bottle of col-
loidal silver solution and an artist’s paintbrush. The ceiling was
a bit high to reach without a chair, but the floor was a perfect
surface to paint on. Jack started by pulling the beds away from
the wall, and drew a complete circle enclosing both. She put
a compass down to determine north, and began drawing the
symbols in the almost invisible ink. By the time she had fin-
ished the second circle, within the first, Sadie was stirring, a
little color in her lips.
She sat up and reached for the hot chocolate, wrapping the
quilt over her legs. “Thank God for the circles. That’s better.
What is that stuff? Invisible ink?”
“Felix suggested it,” Jack said. The professor had theorised
that, as well as being more discreet, silver would be more ef-
fective than ink at creating the sixteenth-century magic circles
that helped “borrowed timers” survive. The sorcery that had
caught both Jack and Sadie and suspended them on the edge of
death relied on sixty-six sigils, inscribed in protective circles.
Jack had them tattooed onto her skin, Sadie’s were drawn on
every few days. “I didn’t think the landlady would be keen on
permanent markers all over her nice floorboards.”
Sadie sipped the chocolate, sighing. “I was getting so cold.”
Jack lifted her bag onto the bed. “You’re able to survive out
of the circle better than I did at first. Here, put a jumper on.”
Sadie put her drink down and buried herself in a knitted
jacket. “Talking about Felix . . .”
“We aren’t.” Jack unloaded the contents of her bag into sev-
eral drawers. “That’s all over.”
Sadie cupped the warm drink again, catching Jack’s gaze for

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 6    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

a second. She sipped the froth off the top. “Mm. They have a
telly here. I bet they even have broadband and satellite.”
Jack handed her the remote, and for a few minutes the girl
seemed occupied with swapping channels.
“So, what do we do about the cottage?” Sadie looked up,
swamped by the jacket, looking more like twelve than nearly
fifteen, she had lost so much weight.
“Maggie’s the new owner, legally, and she’s made me her
agent. Ellen was her mother’s younger sister, I think. I have to
organize getting the place cleaned up and habitable so we can
decide whether to sell it or live in it. We’re booked in here for a
week but it may take a lot longer.” She started sorting through
Sadie’s clothes from another bag. “We don’t have to do all the
work ourselves. We can get people in to help.”
“I know that.” Sadie turned the television off. “I was just
wondering how Ellen died? I mean, was she dead when the
house caught fire?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” Jack sat on the other bed, and
looked at the girl. “We have a lot to do at the cottage, but we’ll
have time to do other things as well. I know it was too danger-
ous to let you go out in Devon in case someone recognized you,
but you should be OK here. I thought we’d get you to a hair-
dresser. All the pictures in the press have you with black hair,
and you look different now it’s growing out.”
“Maybe get some new clothes?” The girl had added a note of
pleading. “It’s my birthday in a few weeks.”
“I know, your mum told me.” Jack kicked off her boots and
stretched back on the pillows. “We have to get the house hab-
itable because she’s coming up to visit in the summer. Angie’s
been telling friends she’s going on a retreat to grieve for you.”
“Only, I’m not actually dead.” Sadie dragged a music player
from her rucksack. “Well, I won’t be if you pass me some of that
herbal stuff.”
Jack passed over a bottle of the decoction they both used to

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    7 

maintain their energy. “I’ll go back tomorrow and start clearing

the worst of the debris from the kitchen. The smell, by the way,
was from a dead cat.”
“That’s horrible.” Sadie screwed up her face as she mea-
sured out a few tablespoons into a glass and swigged it back. “I
thought it was—you know, Ellen’s body.”
Jack wondered how frank she could be with Sadie but the
girl was bright and, so far, had survived the nightmare of being
hunted by a sadistic predator. Not to mention two brushes with
death. “Well, that was probably part of it.” Jack looked at Sadie,
whose eyes promptly narrowed. “The smell of burning, any-
way.”
“What’s bothering you?” Sadie put her head on one side,
staring at Jack through long lashes. She was a pretty girl, with
a heart-shaped face and vivid blue eyes. She was very thin after
months of illness.
“The cat, I thought—it had a hole in its head. Perfectly
round.”
Sadie stared into the dregs of the drink. “Like a bullet hole?
Who would shoot a cat?”
“I don’t know. Maggie said Ellen used to do what I do, sup-
ply things for magic, but in recent years she only had one cus-
tomer.”
Sadie put the glass down and picked up the remote again.
“Well, we need to find out if Ellen was shot before she was in-
cinerated, then. Or burned alive.” Sadie shuddered.
Jack nodded. “I thought I would go to the inquest next
month. She was old; I’m sure she died before the fire.” She
didn’t sound convincing even in her own ears.
Before Sadie switched the television back on she paused, bit
her lip and looked toward Jack. The expression on her face was
troubled, as if she wasn’t sure how Jack would react.
“The garden’s overgrown,” the girl said. “Ten foot high,
overgrown.”

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 8    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

“Completely. It’s worse at the back, right up to the roof in

places. It’s even growing into the house.”
Sadie studied the back of her hand; the skin on her fingers
was loose and dry. “I thought—you’re going to laugh at me.”
“Try me.”
“I thought the garden was—sort of whispering. I can’t ex-
plain it. Not words, just—” She looked toward the window and
scowled. “I know it sounds mad. But it seemed like it was watch-
ing us.”
Before Jack said anything, she remembered the feeling
of the garden pressing back against the door. “I felt a bit the
same.” The presence wasn’t oppressive, just enormous, as if she
was being scrutinised by an elephant, or a whale.
“I think we ought to be careful, that’s all.” Sadie switched
the television on and Jack retrieved the bottle of herbal medi-
cine for herself.

Sadie’s energy recharged inside the circles; she slept well and
bounced out of bed the next day, ready to go back to the house.
“I thought you hated the cottage?” grumbled Jack, who was
slow to wake up these days.
“You’re such a grump.” Sadie, dressed in pale blue pajamas
decorated with penguins, beat her into the bathroom. “You said
we could go shopping after we’ve made lists in the house.”
Jack laid her head back on the pillow and looked at the ceil-
ing. The top circle of sigils was almost invisible, painted by Jack
standing on a wobbly chair. Her body, which she had ignored
for most of her thirty-one years, ached. Her breasts were un-
comfortable, and when she felt them they seemed bigger. She
ran her hands over her hips, feeling the slight padding that had
developed over the last few months with the resurgence of her
appetite. She was losing her childish figure.

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    9 

Sadie was showering, the splashing sound drifting into the

room as Jack closed her eyes . . .
“Jack.” She woke to see Sadie frowning down at her, her
head nudged to one side. “You’re going to miss breakfast. And
you look funny.”
Jack pushed herself up to sitting. “Funny how?”
“I don’t know. Different.”
Looking in the mirror in the bathroom, Jack could only see
sleep-creased skin and bleary eyes. Sadness washed through
her, bringing the sting of tears. She was missing Felix, his warm
presence around the house, the way he always smiled when she
met his gaze. Evenings at his house had followed the same pat-
tern, Sadie playing computer games or backgammon with Felix,
winning mythical thousands, laughing and teasing him while
Jack dug through her research. She remembered Felix cooking,
taking every pinch of salt or sprig of herbs seriously. The un-
spoken relationship had buzzed softly between them.
Tears ran down her cheeks and she started to cry, soft sobs.
She ran the tap, as she drowned in something like grief.
When she came out, she was sure Sadie had heard her be-
cause the teenager didn’t pester her, just led the way down to
breakfast.
The dining room was old-fashioned, but the food was excel-
lent. Jack helped herself to more toast, after porridge and bacon
and eggs. Sadie nibbled a little toast, having eaten most of her
porridge.
Sadie waved her hand down her own frame. “I’ve lost loads
and you’re getting fatter.” She half-smiled. “It suits you. But you
need some new clothes.”
“Borrowed timers are always skinny.” Jack thought back
to the moment when she had augmented her life-preserving
magic with a mouthful of fresh blood. It had infused her with
energy, enough to last three months. For a moment, the craving

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 10    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

for ­Felix’s warm arm, the cut skin against her tongue, the slow
pulsing of salt into her mouth, overwhelmed her.
“So, shopping.” Sadie, at least, could keep her focus. Her
eyes narrowed as she stared at Jack, but she didn’t say anything.
“After we look at the house and get some lists written.” Jack’s
throat was dry and she slaked it with a slurp of tea. “And find a
good rubbish clearance firm.”

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 Chapter 2

Venice, in this twenty-eighth year of her Grace the

Queen Elizabeth’s reign, rises out the lagoon like a
fairy town. But once one sets foot to it, it is revealed as
the antechamber to hell in its stench, its debauchery, its
treachery, and its battle with the sea. All delivered in a
smiling mask.
—Edward Kelley, private letter to Lord Dannick
dated 15 May 1586, held in Dannick family archive
[facsimile held by British Library dated 1975]

M
y first view of Venice, of this marvel of man’s
mastery over the sea, was of a line of buildings topped
by a risen dome gilded by the sun. My boatman, who
talked continuously despite my lack of comprehension, gabbled
and pointed.
“San Marco!” he shouted, pointing at the dome. The great
cathedral of St. Mark’s, famous all over Europe. The build-
ings beside it seemed to float upon a sea of fog, tall mansions
squeezed together. The lagoon was calm and the man turned
as if onto an invisible path, then looked across at another island
and turned again. He babbled something that sounded like Ital-
ian, but left me with little understanding. Shoals, I feared, on
which we might ground.
I clutched my bags more closely around me, and he glanced

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 12    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

again at them, his tongue touching his lips. I lifted my head

and looked away while my fingers crawled along my belt to my
dagger. I am counted a good judge of character, and was certain
that while the man would not hesitate to rob a lesser man, he
would back down in a fight.
As he wove patterns in the water behind us, whirls and bub-
bles that trailed away, we were diverted along the waterfront.
My stomach, never at ease at sea, lurched in my belly. The
buildings, some giant complex of palaces and churches, led to a
row of great houses, bright with color and extravagantly glazed,
mirroring the light back upon the water. It was a marvellous
sight.
My boatman, now concentrating on his work and heaving
upon the single large oar, pulled his craft about into a nar-
row lane. It was almost a road of water, shaded by the walls of
wooden and stone houses above us. The sounds of hand carts,
clogs, traders, boatmen and whores assaulted us. He pointed
ahead to an area filled with pontoons and, as the port came into
view, all manner of ships. I marvelled at a great galleon as we
slipped into its lee, a few sailors watching from its deck, cast-
ing down scornful comments upon us. My boatman pointed his
thumb at me and spat into the water. The men above laughed,
but we left them behind as he brought his boat into an area of
pontoons lined with vessels three and four deep. He tied up
alongside one.
“Arsenale,” he said, holding out his brown hand, much cal-
loused. I gave the man some coins, and when he whined for
more shook my head sternly, for the ambassador in Prague had
visited Venice many times and warned me the boatmen were
robbers. When his face turned angry, I added one more scudo,
and he was happy. I grasped my largest bag, swung it over my
shoulder, and indicated that he should carry the other. I stepped
onto the seat to disembark.
The whole city stank like death, and eyes followed me with

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    13 

every move. I trod with care from one flat boat to another to
reach the quayside and grasp one of the wooden piers that sup-
ported it. I swayed more upon the dock than I had on the sea. I
leaned over the black water and spat bile. My oarsman, hopping
nimbly, threw my belongings toward me. I barely caught them
before they spilled into the lagoon. I sat down upon a mooring
block and opened my bags to check the contents. I carried my
most important possessions upon my person, but any educated
man knew the value of books. Lord Robert Dannick, my patron,
had entrusted me with the most secret mission, and promised
enough funds to complete my experiments back in the house
in Prague. In addition, my friend Amyas Ratcliffe had charged
me with a mission to answer a question we had both concerned
ourselves with: the very nature of our animus, our base human
form and its spiritual frailties.
The first I knew of a companion was a pair of long-toed,
polished boots of an oxblood color. I glanced up then stood, for
the fellow who wore the boots was clearly of some importance,
attended as he was by two servants. He was a little round man,
wearing such bright colors and clashing garments that I might
have thought him in motley, like a fool.
“Signor.” I made my best bow. My Italian was rudimentary
at best but my Venetian was worse, so I attempted a greeting in
Latin. “I am honored to meet you, sir.”
The man squinted into the sun, then looked me over in a
fashion which in England would be most rude.
“Ah!” he exclaimed in Latin. He had a high-pitched, musical
voice. “You are German?”
I stepped back, a little nervous at his waving and loud voice.
At least a dozen fellows stopped working on boats or nets to
watch us.
I bowed again, with a flourish of my cloak I had learned in
Prague. “Sir. My name is Edward Kelley, late from England,
and I am come here on business.”

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 14    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

“It is more correct to address me as Excellency, Signor Kel-

ley.” His Latin was heavily accented, his tongue stretching the
vowels and rolling the “r”s. He smiled again, showing a row of
blackened teeth. “I am sent to welcome you to our city-state and
learn your business.”
It seemed strange to be quizzed by the man, but I thought
perhaps it was part of the habits of this city. No doubt this was
some custom official, as he wore upon his breast a heavy gold
chain and some sort of emblem.
“I am here on the business of Lord Dannick of England, to
visit a nobleman of Venice to discuss some important research,
your Excellency.” One of his servants hefted my bags onto his
broad back and the other lifted a cudgel. I opened my mouth to
protest, but shut it again. Trust me to keep close watch upon my
baggage.
“And, no doubt, you have papers and letters of introduction,
signor?” The man started walking ahead of me, a fat, bouncy
fellow, in his red shoes.
I fumbled within my pocket where lay my purse. “I do, of
course, but I—” The man was getting ahead of me so I pushed
past the servants to catch up. “Your Excellency, whom do I have
the honor of addressing?”
“I?” The man grinned over his shoulder at me. “Why, Mas-
ter Kelley, I am no one.”
I felt a blow upon my head, and my senses were lost as my
face hit the planks of the quayside.

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 Chapter 3

Present day: Bee Cottage, Lake District

Apple and plum trees tease children with fruit, hanging

just out of reach over the garden wall, as if tempting
them to try their footing between the shamble of stones.
They always fall. Once, many seasons ago, a child died
when the slab of limestone on top of the wall slid after
his tumbling body and crushed his skull. Now the fruit
goes unpicked, prey only to the wasps and the boldest of
the rooks which grow fat and unmolested around the
house. They nest between the chimneys, and hide behind
its shattered windows.

T
he idea of clearing the old house was overwhelm-
ing. Jack prioritised cleaning up the dead cat, slimier and
stinkier after another day, and unbolted the back door
again for air. It sprang inward, if possible with more force than
before, ivy pressing its green gloss into the room as if searching
for something.
“There really are rats!” shouted Sadie. She was wearing
Jack’s old riding boots against the dirt and was rummaging in
the packed dining room at the front of the house. “There’s shit
everywhere—” There was more swearing, which Jack ignored,
followed by a squeaking sound. “I got the window open.”

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 16    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

Jack carried the bagged cat to the open front door. Sadie was
leaning out of the window, probably trying to get some fresh
air. Jack dumped the package into an available bin and closed
the lid on it. “How much stuff is in there?”
Sadie looked back. “I’m kneeling on it, it’s all over the whole
room. Mostly just papers, though, and a few boxes of old tins.
But . . .” She disappeared, then waved a metal item out of the
window. “I found a sword!”
Jack went indoors and fought her way past the damp pa-
pers to the dining room. Sadie met her holding the rusted
thing. Calling it a sword seemed fanciful until Jack made out
the cross guard. “OK, it is a sword. Probably some ornamental
thing.”
“The newspapers go back to the nineties. Twenty years.
That must be when she started to go mad.”
Jack smiled, and leaned in to estimate the amount of clutter
in the room. There were sagging cardboard boxes filled with
china, glass and empty tins. “That’s a whole skip-full, just there
by the window. It’s a miracle the floor’s held.”
“There’s one place where the floor is rotted right through. I
think that’s where the rats get in.” Sadie dropped the sword and
brushed past her into the hall. “Let’s try upstairs.”
Jack made a note about the floor, and followed Sadie up
the creaking, uncarpeted steps. There were four rooms off
the landing, all closed up, and several piles of boxes in front of
two of them. Sadie tried the nearest door, to the room over the
kitchen, but it was stuck. It took all of Jack’s strength to force
the door open.
The room was like something from Miss Havisham’s house.
It looked hundreds of years old, but Jack recognized a plastic
radio and an aluminium walking frame from the modern era.
The bed was Victorian brass, and the room had a huge ma-
hogany chest of drawers in one corner and a marble-topped
table under the window. Everything was covered with dust and

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    17 

stank of mildew. But that wasn’t what caught Jack’s eye after a
­second—when it moved.
It was a rook, cowering but defiant, its gray beak switching
direction as it looked first from one eye, then the other. Before
Jack could say anything it launched itself at them, forcing them
to duck, and flapped over their heads toward the doorway, caw-
ing loudly.
“How did it get in?” shouted Sadie, over the screeching.
Jack pointed at the window, where a corner of the glass of
the bottom sash was missing. As her eyes adjusted to the low
light—the rest of the window was covered with leaves, like the
downstairs room—she could see the mess over every surface.
She went back onto the landing. The bird was now walking with
its rolling gait toward the back of the house. Jack chased after
it down the landing. Just when Jack thought she would have to
catch it, it opened its wings and glided over her head and down
the stairs. She could hear its squawks diminishing as it flew out
of the open front door.
Sadie pulled at the bedclothes and wrinkled her nose. “This
room isn’t too bad. If we strip it right out and start again, obvi-
ously.”
“I’m going to clean up the furniture,” Jack said. She ran her
eyes over the piles of papers on the table. “These look like bills.
Legal papers, vet invoices, utilities.”
“Maybe the cat was ill.”
“Maybe.” Jack peeled one disintegrating sheet from the
next. Everything was wet. “This is a letter from Blackwell and
Whist, the solicitors who managed Ellen’s will. They wrote to
Maggie telling her she was the sole heir.” She squinted at the
blurred characters.
Sadie had wandered off, and after some banging managed to
squeak another door open.
“There’s a bathroom,” she shouted back. The sound of run-
ning water was reassuring. “And a sink.”

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 18    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

“It’s a good job we haven’t had a cold snap,” Jack said.

“There’s enough water in the house already.” One paper caught
her eye. The heading had a drawing of a castle on it. The ink
had run but she could make out some of the words. “Breach of
contract” jumped out at her.
Sadie banged the new door shut, and after a few moments
emerged again to the sound of rushing water and clanking
pipes. “The toilet flushes.”
“So I hear.” Jack followed the sound of Sadie’s voice onto the
landing.
“There’s a tank up on the wall, it’s so old-fashioned.” Sadie
fumbled in her pocket for a bottle of decoction, and took a sip.
“It’s weird, I don’t feel too bad here. I’ve even got some energy.
What’s in here?”
Sadie wrenched open a door at the front of the house, then
stumbled back, hands over her face in a maelstrom of feathers
and screeches. A dozen birds flew at her. She screamed, stagger-
ing toward Jack. The two cowered in the doorway of the back
bedroom as the birds flapped around the hallway before one led
the others down the stairs. Jack, her arms around the teenager,
could feel her shaking.
“It’s OK,” she said, as she let go. “Just birds. Rooks.”
“They took me by surprise. My mum made me sit up and
watch this old film, once. These crows went mad and killed
people.” Sadie shrugged Jack off and brushed herself down. She
gingerly pushed the new door open further. “I can’t forget what
happened before . . .”
Jack remembered Sadie’s experience of seeing an air elemen-
tal rip through a rookery, dismembering the birds and nearly
killing the girl. “Well, these seem healthy, anyway, but we don’t
want a rookery in the house.” She leaned into the bedroom.
The birds had found a way in through the missing pane of a
whole sash, bringing in thousands of sticks and covering the lot
with excrement.

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    19 

Jack checked the nests but none had eggs in yet. “Maybe
Ellen liked them being here. They would make a fuss if anyone
broke in, like guard dogs.”
Water had eroded and darkened the floorboards by the win-
dow, underneath a hole in the ceiling that gave access to the
loft. A few holes between the slates allowed daylight in. From
the middle of the room, piled high with more rubbish, there
was a fantastic view through the shattered window over the
nearest fell. The light purpled what Jack guessed was heather,
over a whole hillside.
A man’s voice made her jump.
“Hello! Is anyone there?”
His words echoed up the hall and stairs. Jack struggled
through the mountains of paper to look down the stairs. The
man, in his late forties or early fifties she judged, was smiling up
at her. “Ah. The lady of the house, I presume? Mrs. Slee?” He
was wearing a suit, incongruous against all the rubbish.
“No. I’m acting on her behalf.” Jack negotiated the piles
of rubbish on each step with care, and took the offered hand.
Strong fingers, warm. Close up, he could be older than she first
guessed. “I’m Jack Hammond.” Sadie was keeping out of sight
upstairs, yet he cocked his head as if he heard something.
“I’m Henry Dannick. And your companion?”
She ignored the question and released the hand. The hairs
on the back of her neck were prickling. She looked past him to
a long, expensive car and a uniformed driver. “I’m just here to
decide how to clear and empty the house.”
“I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Slee but if you are close to
her perhaps you can help me.”
“OK.” Jack stepped away from him, feeling some unnamed
alarm but also the pull of the man. He was very charming. He
spread out his hands, palms up, as if to say “I’m harmless.”
“My family and Ellen Ratcliffe’s have had a long association.
But recently—”

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 20    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

“What’s the problem, Mr. Dannick?”

“Actually, it’s Sir Henry. Ellen worked for my family for
many years.” He looked around the hallway and his lips twisted.
“I had no idea she had got into such a mess. She was always ec-
centric, of course.”
“Worked for you, how?” As far as she knew Ellen supplied
items for magic, much as Jack did.
“The garden—I know it’s hard to see it now, but it used to
be full of rare herbs. Ellen was my family’s herbalist. We were
hoping to come to a similar arrangement with Mrs. Slee, we
know she is a—herbalist—as well.”
“I understand.” Herbalist, or a witch, like Maggie? She mo-
tioned toward the door. “Perhaps we could talk outside? The
smell in here is rather strong.” The charred meat stink was
starting to nauseate her again.
“Of course.” He stepped outside, careful not to touch the
door frame with his sleeves. “It really is disgusting in there. We
were so sorry to hear what had happened.”
“What item in particular did you need?”
“It’s a herb. I’m afraid I only know its colloquial name, black
hair-root. At least, that’s what they call it in this area.” There
was no trace of a northern accent in his voice, which suggested
some upper-class education. He waited as if he expected Jack to
understand the reference to the herb.
“Hair-root. You’re going to have to give me more than that.
A picture, maybe?”
“Ellen makes it into a tincture for us. She said it was rare,
and this was the only place it grew in any quantity to her knowl-
edge.” He looked down at her, and she got the impression he
was trying to read her, too. “This is a very important herbal
medicine for us. Ellen must have made notes somewhere.”
“We haven’t found any personal papers yet. A lot of stuff was
ruined by the fire brigade.”

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 Th e Se c r ets of B l o od a n d B on e    21 

“She also had Thomazine’s papers; they may describe the

herb. They are written on vellum, and so would be more resis-
tant to water, perhaps. I assume she kept them safe—they are
very valuable.”
“Thomazine?” Jack could hear the shuffling of Sadie’s soles
at the top of the stairs.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Thomazine Ratcliffe was the first
herbalist to my family, more than four hundred years ago. Ellen
inherited her papers.”
“I’ll look out for them.”
She stepped forward into the doorway, making him step
back. He glanced up at the window again, as if he knew Sadie
was up there somewhere. He felt in his pocket, and brought out
a card.
“My number is on there. If you find the herb—or Thoma-
zine’s notes—please call. The matter is urgent.”
She took it, the embossed card snowy white against her
grubby fingers. “I’ll let you know.” The card had a small picture
of the castle on it, the same one she had seen on the ruined legal
papers.
“Let me give you more of an incentive. My family would
pay good money for the herb in the correct formulation. The
last payment we made was for four thousand pounds. Given the
urgency, I would be prepared to give you the same for the tinc-
ture, and a further twenty thousand for Thomazine’s notes. You
can reach me at the castle, the number is on the card.”
Jack was astonished. “Well, that sounds very generous.”
“A member of my family is very ill: the need is great.” He
crooked a finger to the driver, who opened the back door of
the shining car for him. “If you need a good builder, as I sug-
gest you do, John Cartwright in Hawkshead is very good. If you
mention my name, he might be able to come a bit quicker.”
“Thank you. I don’t know anyone in the area yet.”

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 22    Re be c ca Ale xa nd e r

“And as we are going to be neighbors, perhaps you and

your . . . ​f riend might like to visit the castle some time? Knowle
Castle is our family seat.”
“Thank you. I’d like to see it.”
He stepped into the car, and the driver shut the door. The
window slid down with the faintest of whines. “I mean it. Do
come and meet Callum. Then you’ll understand the urgency.
He doesn’t have much time left.”

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